“I can agree with that,” Henry said, not daring to hope that Chit could be talking about Amala’s father. It was not at all uncommon for Britishers to go back and forth to India; there could have been a number of people present this evening who had traveled there and enjoyed talking about it.

“And just who are these people whom I have agreed to have tea with entirely against my will?” Henry asked, almost holding his breath.

“Oliver Hepworth,” Chit said, and Henry almost laughed aloud. It was far too amazing to be a coincidence—at least as far as he saw it. “You know him?’

“Know of him,” Henry said.

“Oh, and . . . he has daughters; perhaps they’ll be lovely, eh? One of them is Indian, he tells me. Took her on when her parents were killed. I don’t know about you, but it sounds like the perfect family for us to lounge about with for an afternoon. Oh, gotta go. Just saw someone I need to speak with. I’ll be around to get you after lunch, old boy.”

“I’ll be ready,” Henry said and briefly glanced heavenward, as if to acknowledge the sudden feeling he had that Providence had smiled upon him.

Chapter Two

THE UNWANTED SUITOR

Amala had a strange dream that night, in which her hazy memories of India mingled with the things Henry had told her of his own impressions of the country. She could hear the noise of vendors in the street and feel the soft fabric of her mother’s sari that she clung to as they pushed through the crowds with a particular destination in mind, although she had no idea where they were going. Their clamoring through the crowds seemed to go on and on, as if they might never arrive. The throng of people became so thick—all moving in the opposite direction—that Amala began to feel frightened and clung more tightly to her mother.